


Counting Paths

by knightlyss



Series: the Bear and the Princess [1]
Category: Game of Thrones (TV), Vikings (TV)
Genre: F/M, enjoy this extensive crossover, if hirst and dumb and dumber can write fanfic and get away with it so can i, no beta we die like mistreated literary characters, the plot bunny that would not diiiie
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-10
Updated: 2021-02-10
Packaged: 2021-03-16 20:41:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,915
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29338476
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/knightlyss/pseuds/knightlyss
Summary: “If I'm a princess, you're nothing but an animal.”“Well, if I'm an animal, you better run away before I eat you.”meetings
Relationships: Bjorn Ironside/Sansa Stark
Series: the Bear and the Princess [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2155152
Comments: 4
Kudos: 17





	Counting Paths

i.

He's twelve and she nine when they finally meet.

His new arm ring weighs heavily on his wrist, sliding back and forth over his skin with his movements, hanging lazily off the slender bones of his hand when he holds his arms by his side. It clinks satisfyingly against the table when he eats, and it glints brilliantly in the sun, blinding his mother until she laughs and cuffs him gently before going back to fishing in the creek. He's tried putting it higher up on his arm time and time again, but it always manages to end up at his wrist in the end.

Perhaps that is the reason why it is now missing.

Heaving a mighty sigh, he scuffs up a bit more dirt in annoyance with his shoe and begins another trek down towards the coast. It pains him to think that it may have actually fallen in the water there and had been carried out to sea, but then he remembers the weight of it a second after, deciding that in the worst case scenario it's sunk into the sandy bottom somewhere, most likely by one of the streams he and Gyda always snuck off to play in.

Lately they have been trying to compete against each other by skipping stones across the water, Gyda managing a good five skips before it plunks into the stream, while he had managed four as his highest the last time. She was always better than him at skipping stones, and it annoys him to no end.

Hence, Gyda is now in the woods without him, because he had been too big of a proud sulk to admit defeat.

It's probably the reason why it's only just occurred to him that maybe, just maybe, there is a chance that he actually did drop his arm ring there. The thought makes him shake his head and mumble disappointment at himself, turning around to make sure his parents have not seen him, then make a right and head through the trees. The woods are overgrown and beautiful, the treetops above him growing closer together with each step, and it takes him a short while to become shrouded in dim lighting.

He can't help but frown at the sound of voices carrying not far from him, knowing that Gyda didn't bring a friend with her into the woods. She would never do that; That's their place. Cautiously, he takes a few more steps towards the clearing, eyes narrowing in anger.

Gyda is definitely not alone.

“What is this?” he asks angrily, bursting through the greens and studying the two girls hurriedly getting on their feet. Gyda, ever the calm one, only rolls her eyes at his tone.

“She found your arm ring in the stream,” she says, waving said item in her hand casually. He storms over and grabs it right out of her hand, ignoring her mild protest, studying his precious gift for scratches and other damages. Thankfully, it seems unharmed for the most part.

He turns his gaze on the girl behind Gyda.

She's small and slender, wrapped in a pretty blue dress, the colour providing a stark contrast to her red hair. Some of it has been braided away from her face, leaving it angular and sharp, a pair of startling blue eyes staring back at him amongst the childish freckles. He scoffs.

“She probably wanted something shiny.”

“I already have something shiny,” she says immediately, her small voice sounding like some cross between outraged and dignified that noble girls haven't quite mastered yet. He gives her another once over, studying the embroidery on her sleeves and the intricacies of her small braids. She most likely belongs to a House of some sort.

“Well, aren't you a little princess?”

“Bjorn!” Gyda chastises, smacking him on the arm while he snorts. The little redhead is not amused.

“If I'm a princess, you're nothing but an animal,” she says haughtily, raising her chin.

“Well, if I'm an animal, you better run away before I eat you.”

“You wouldn't.”

“Why not? Bears eat people. They probably eat princesses too,” he says, taking a few steps closer. Her eyes are wild now, staring at him as she takes cautious steps backwards in tune with his progression towards her.

“You're not a bear,” she finally says, her little voice wobbling dangerously. He pretends to think it over.

“Maybe not,” he shrugs, the words satisfyingly stopping her in her tracks. He smirks, readying himself to go in for the kill.

Without warning, he throws both arms wide, giving off the best roar he has, trying to sound like his father's mighty boom as he trains himself to wield swords and axes mercilessly. He imagines how the sound vibrates in his bones and rattles his skull, as if too big for his body.

It has the desired effect: The girl shrieks frightfully and turns on her heal as a result, running back into the woods as if there really were a bear chasing her.

He doubles over as he watches her go, only laughing harder when Gyda reaches him and gives him another smack, this time on the back of his head. They fight about it all the way home, reaching a rather stern looking mother, their father watching them from the side, amusement painting his features like always.

His father laughs heartily with him as they finally tell him of the girl in the woods, but his mother frowns and sends him to bed without supper. Annoyed, he tosses and turns all night, wondering how the little girl could manage to ruin his life so far away from his home when he doesn't even know her.

Later, after his father has returned from a brief trip, his mother will remind him of House Stark and the oath they swore to the Warden of the North, regardless of where they stand personally in their politics. She tells him of the children Lord Stark has, of the little redhead girl that he met in the woods and nearly frightened to death.

“Told you she was a princess,” he grumbles in Gyda's direction, earning him a pointed elbow in his side.

ii.

Her hair is as dark as a ravens coat, but there is no doubt in his mind, that the young girl he once met by the stream remembers him.

It's been years since their little incident. Years of establishing just what loyalty to a House means for him and his family, as demonstrated by the way the Lord of Winterfell lost his head, and the war for the Iron Throne truly began. 

Years of frustration at where to go in life, now that his family is torn apart and hastily sown back together, as other Houses eventually swear fealty to boys without crowns. Years of bridging the gap between the part of him that feels like a northerner, and the Skagosi wildling inside him, stemming from the Free Folk that had migrated across the border eons ago. Years of trying to figure out where his heart truly belongs.

He's heard of her in passing sometimes. 

The little girl he teased in the woods eight years past, Lady Sansa of House Stark, remaining family scattered all over Westeros while she's in King's Landing, her hand in marriage promised to the brat that didn't deserve the gold upon his head, and later the imp, or so the whisper goes.

(His family was invited to a feast in Winterfell once; He can still taste the roast and the mead after all these years, still see the smiling faces all around him before the Stark family was torn apart, just like his was).

She's somehow always in the back of his mind, even as he falls in love with Thorunn, and then in lust with Torvi. There's things he wants to say to her, he realises: Memories he wants her to forgive, nevermind that he doesn't understand why yet. 

Seven Hells, he's still confused as to why he let his father talk him into going back to Westeros in the first place, but that is a whole other matter.

The recognition in her eyes is all consuming, and he struggles not to let the effect show, as her slightly panicked gaze follow him and his father into the modest dining room of Winterfell, currently occupied by strange, new faces.

“Ah, Lothbrok. Come join us.”

“Thank you, Lord Bolton,” his father says dutifully, crossing the distance to the table and sitting down, Bjorn following suit while careful not to look Sansa in the eye. To his surprise, the tension in the room is already palpable without their help, and he finds he doesn't even want to know what previous conversation had taken place. A brief glance towards the shaggy-haired servant pouring him a drink with their gaze rooted firmly on the goblet and then the ground already has every nerve in his body standing on alert.

Bolton's bastard stands from his seat abruptly, goblet already in hand.

“A toast,” he proclaims, gaze sweeping over them all before landing on his guests, “To Ragnar Lothbrok. May he live long to see his own House rise under the banner of House Bolton, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North.”

Ragnar, always a man of principle, nods in recognition with his goblet raised. Bjorn is half suspecting the mead to be poisoned, but Lord Bolton's young wife looks calm enough, tension in the room aside, and he chances a sip from his goblet. 

Finding that no immediate taste of bitterness stands out to him, he chances another healthy drink before setting the goblet down. Looking pleased with his contribution, the young bastard reclaims his seat next to Sansa, sending her a satisfied smirk before digging into the the meal set out for them, as a somewhat awkward silence settles over the table for a few moments, broken when Lord Bolton finally clears his throat.

“Well, seeing as my son has spoiled the surprise, I’ll be brief. Skagos is yours to claim, if you want it.”

Bjorn can't help it: he snorts. 

“It's already ours.”

To his credit, Lord Bolton doesn't react, only watching Ragnar for a reaction. Bjorn turns his head slightly to watch his father, smothering a smirk at the familiar raised brows now adorning said face. 

“My Lord, Skagos will always be loyal to the Warden of the North,” Ragnar finally says. “As it always has. Stark or Bolton makes no difference to us.”

“Perhaps it should. The fealty you swore was to a traitor of the crown,” Bolton points out. “Your words mean nothing now.” 

The statement brings a slight chill to his bones, and Bjorn chances a glance at Sansa, who catches his eye.

For a moment, there's no one but them in the room. Her eyes are the same as always, blue and warm, like the embrace of the waves that always brings him to his destination. He can easily imagine the black in her hair washed away to make room for the red he knows so well, the furious locks that haunt him in his dreams whenever he feels lonely. Her face is somehow both sharper and softer than before.

“My proposition is this,” Bolton continues, bursting the fragile bubble that have formed momentarily around them. Bjorn forces himself to focus his full attention on the new Lord of Winterfell.

“Skagos will be released from the rule of the North immediately. You will be free to lead your lives as you always have. Have your little wars for all I care. In return, you will freely swear your fealty to House Bolton, and will in turn be named Warden of Skagos, and may call upon our help when needed.”

If possible, Ragnar’s brow raise even more. Bjorn can understand why. Skagos is in disarray without Westerosi politics to begin with, between his father and his uncle trying to claim ownership of the island and its inhabitants. A proclamation from the Warden in the North would be an invitation to war, but it would also elevate his family to nobility. Power would become everything.

Ragnar Lothbrok. Warden of Skagos. 

_King._

“I will need some time to think on it, my Lord.”

All turn to Ragnar in surprise, Bjorn included. Even Lord Bolton looks momentarily thrown, taking a moment to compose himself.

“My friend,” he says, and Bjorn imagines how the sweetening words must feel like wildfire in his mouth, “If you turn down this offer, Skagos will be seen as the enemy. Perhaps forever.”

“We are already seen as the enemy,” Bjorn cuts in, before his father raises his hand to quiet him. He grits his teeth together, but obeys.

“The Skagosi are already a proud people. Convincing them to stay loyal to the North after all these years has been hard enough. Fighting freely for someone other than themselves will take some convincing,” Ragnar says with quiet authority, and Bjorn knows his father is hoping the point will come across. “Even so, we are not accepted by Westeros and its people. If I am to lead, I have to put my people first.”

Surprisingly, one of the corners of Bolton’s mouth tugs upwards briefly.

“I see your point. Very well. I will be expecting an answer before the upcoming wedding.”

There’s a brief clattering of silverware, and Bjorns eyes snap to Sansa, as she hurriedly presses a cloth to the table to soak up whatever liquid she’d spilled. Bolton’s bastard smiles sweetly and takes the cloth out of her hand, signaling instead to the shaggy-haired servant to clean up the mess.

“Wedding, my Lord?” he hears his father ask, nonchalance obvious in his voice.

“My son and Lady Sansa are to be wed within a fortnight,” Bolton states, not without pride, and Bjorn sees his son smirking at him this time from out of the corner of his eye. 

His eyes are glued to Sansa, as hers are to him. They’re wide and searching, daring him to say something. 

Do something.

Silently, almost shamefully, he drops her gaze and focuses on the goblet in his hand and emptying its contents, appetite long gone. 

“I believe congratulations are in order then,” he hears his father say, almost from somewhere far away. “We must be going, my Lord. I will send word within a fortnight.”

Bolton bows his head in acknowledgment bidding them farewell and safe travels. Bjorn feels her eyes burning a hole in the back of his neck as soon as he turns away. It seethes like an unseen imprint burned into his skin, following him through the corridors and out of the castle, into the courtyard, towards the stables, and out of the gate.

*

Nearly two days pass in a nearby inn before his father finally breaks his silence on the subject.

“We have no choice.”

Bjorn's head snaps up from the half-empty mug of ale he’s been nursing, his bored state evaporating like a morning mist.

“You cannot be serious.”

To his credit, Ragnar looks anything but happy at his choice, resolve settling in his weathered face.

“If you can think of anything better, tell me.”

“We take her,” Bjorn says resolutely, ignoring the way his father’s eyes narrow, a familiar expression of irritation and impatience on his face. “We take her with us to Skagos. She’ll be safe there. Her brother is already on the island somewhere.” 

Ragnar sighs deeply, closing his eyes momentarily before leaning forwards in his seat, elbows on the table.

“And then what? What happens after we get murdered by the Bolton army for taking something that does not belong to us?”

“They won’t kill us,” Bjorn argues, even as he knows his father is right. Even if they did succeed in sneaking her out of the castle, the entire army would be hunting them to the ends of the earth. Sansa Stark was a price to be won, a treasure to be had, a jewel to be kept. It wouldn’t do to steal jewels as valuable as her, if you wanted to keep your head.

“Stop acting like a child,” his father says, bringing him back to the present with a glare.

“We can’t leave her here!” Bjorn snaps, earning a few looks from around them. The inn keeper shoots them a look, eyeing the door after, and his father takes the hint, getting up from his seat at the table, but not before grabbing a fistful of Bjorn’s jerkin and dragging him outside. In less than two seconds, he’s slammed against the wall outside, his father pressing him into the wood, mere inches from his face.

“Listen to me, boy. There is **nothing** you can do for her if you’re dead. Do you understand me?” Anger simmering beneath the surface, he does his best to stay calm and not hit back at his father, who slams him into the wall once more. “Do you understand me?” he repeats.

“I understand you,” he all but spits, twisting out of Ragnar’s grip. For a moment they stand facing each other down. Then his father nods, once, collecting himself.

“We will swear our fealty to the Boltons. I will ride back and inform them of the decision. If possible, a number of our Skagosi warriors could be persuaded to join Bolton’s men. Maybe there, they can keep an eye on Lady Stark.” 

Surprised, Bjorn feels himself calm a little. In all his anger, he hadn’t thought of that possibility. His father notices, one corner of his mouth raised briefly in response.

“Ned Stark was an honourable man. You are not the only one that cares about protecting his legacy.”

*

Snow has begun to fall around them, flakes drifting silently towards the ground, adding another coat of white. 

Together, they gather their things and ready their horses, once again silent. It isn’t until they reach a crossroad when he finally speaks, turning to look at his father.

“I will stay with mother for a while,” he says calmly, eying Ragnar almost warily, expecting anger again. His father seems hesitant but nods, and turns his horse back towards the path to Winterfell, leaving behind only hoof prints as proof someone’s been there.

Bjorn rides for days with every intention of seeing his mother, until he sees the abandoned hut protruding from between the hills. 

Suddenly, solitude seems like the only answer to the unspoken question that has been gnawing away at his mind since Sansa had laid eyes on him. Perhaps the wilderness could help erase her flaming hair, help him forget her ocean eyes. Maybe then he’d forget that he couldn’t save her when she silently asked him to.

Except it doesn’t make him forget, when he is reminded of her wedding the next day. The sun is setting, and the sight burns like wavy locks cascading down. He wraps a pelt around himself and tries not to think about how he should at least have been there for her on her wedding day.

He couldn’t even do that for her.

He dreams that night: of wild dogs devouring a pack of wolves, their battle for the upper hand painting the snow crimson. He sees one of the dogs split from the rest of the herd, chasing a smaller wolf with reddish fur through the snow, pouncing on her and sets its teeth into her throat, tearing it open.

The gods are taunting him, he thinks, as he wakes and stumbles outside, throwing up in the snow.

iii.

A twig snaps in the silence.

His head turns this way and that in quick succession, trying to locate the noise. The slope is uneven, scattered with patches of smaller mounds of earth and snow, like stepping stones for giants. The top of the slope leads towards a fallen tree with its roots torn up on his left, the other into dense growth on his right. Standing still in the middle of the forest, the only sound reaching him is the harsh breathing of his own lungs. 

It figures that he would end up in some kind of trouble the moment he decided to venture back towards Winterfell.

There’s movement on his left this time, and he turns, catching sight of something moving behind the roots of the fallen tree. Axe in hand, he edges closer, up the slope, until he reaches flat ground. The fallen tree is up ahead, doing the best it can to hide the person behind it. He sees the movement again, a flash of dark cloth and matted hair.

He hears the footfalls in time and dodges the incoming swing of his opponents sword, spinning in a half circle to focus his attention to the newcomer. 

The man is bald and wild-faced, eyes alight and grin wide, all too eager to put an end to this before it’s even begun. Bjorn manages to duck under another swing, throwing himself forward and rolling onto his feet, spinning around and taking a swing of his own. The axe slashes the man’s back, although he hardly seems fazed by it, the only proof being a small grunt of pain as he turns around. He grins and raises his sword again for another go, Bjorn parrying with his axe. There’s the sound of something splintering, and Bjorn watches in horror as the axe head thumps to the ground, separated from the hilt.

He narrowly jerks away from the attack, the sword managing to slice a line into his cheek as a result. His attacker gives a brief satisfied laugh, as if this is merely a game, and readies himself for Bjorn to make the next move. 

Fumbling, Bjorn manages to find the dagger tucked into the belt at his side, drawing it out and holding it at the ready, axe hilt in the other hand. Laughing to himself, the man makes another attack, swinging high. Again, Bjorn dodges, throwing himself to the side and rolling to land on his back, ready to face him.

Gone.

Getting on his feet, he looks around wildly, spinning in place. An almost gleeful laugh echoes through the trees, coming from everywhere and nowhere at once. Quiet for a few beats, then another laugh.

He barely manages to hear the man this time, earning him another slice, this time on his leg, groaning as it nearly topples him. Turning quickly, he parries quickly with the axe hilt, the middle point miraculously still just strong enough to stop a blade from cutting entirely through it. With the sword partway stuck in the wood, he takes the chance and aims between the legs, kicking hard enough to hear the breath leave the other man’s lungs as he falls, landing on the hard forest floor below him. Bjorn moves, throwing the sword and axe hilt and crawls closer, placing a knee on the heaving torso. 

“Who sent you?” he asks, pressing the tip of his dagger into the man’s chest. He only stares back, smiling through breaths, as though proud that he’s been bested.

Bjorn sinks the blade fully into him, watching the man for a reaction.

“Who sent you?” he repeats, pulling it out and finding a new spot near the gut. The smile widens, accompanied by the squelch of the blade. Bjorn looks around briefly, eyes landing upon the axe head lying a few feet from him. He grabs it quickly, holding the curved blade to the middle of the warrior’s throat.

“Who sent you?”

The man finally reacts, cackling heartily. With a swift jerk, Bjorn cuts him off, jamming the iron edge into the warrior’s throat, letting him gurgle through his laughter. Wild eyes follow him as he gets to his feet, somehow bright and alive still, despite the pain.

Bjorn raises his foot and pushes down the axe head as far as it will go.

The bloody laughter finally comes to a stop.

Taking a deep breath, he wipes some of the blood off his face, smears it on his pants, retrieves his weapons and looks around. The figure behind the fallen tree is still hiding, although he highly doubts it will be for much longer, judging by the events that has just unfolded. He’s about to call out for them to reveal themselves, when they take matters into their own hands. 

Bolton’s servant looks wary, hair filthier than ever clinging to his face, tattered clothing hanging loosely on his slender form. It looks as though he’s studying Bjorn, looking for any signs of danger, and Bjorn figures he must look quite a sight, bloodied and gasping, having just killed a man with a broken axe and a dagger. Something on his face must show trust however, as the servant turns his attention to the fallen tree and gives the smallest of nods.

She’s shaking from head to toe as she appears, her face smeared with tears and dirt, hair braided and matted and yet still oh so red, her eyes bluer than he’s ever seen them.

He stares, barely trusting himself to believe this as anything other than a dream. Judging by the way her wide eyes are studying him back, she must feel the same, gaze greedily taking him in.

Her lips part to speak when they hear the hounds.

Turning in the direction of the noise, he throws a curse to the wind and grabs the abandoned sword from the forest floor, testing the weight in his hand briefly. 

“Hide,” he hisses and runs.

Bolton’s soldiers are loud and easy to find. They halt as they watch him step into the clearing, sword by his side and staring them down.

“Where is Lady Bolton?” 

“How should I know,” he lies. Then, as an afterthought, he adds, “No one has come past here.”

“Liar,” the soldier sneers, accompanied by several of the dogs aptly growling and trying to scratch their way closer. They start tugging at their leashes, trying to chase their desired scent, and Bjorn knows they’ve caught it.

He takes a deep breath and readies himself for the onslaught of teeth and steel, when the sound of more horses break through the clearing.

The warrior’s roar rivals that of his own mother’s, as she starts tearing through one soldier like he’s made of straw, and Bjorn takes advantage of the momentum, throwing the axe head and watching it find a home in another soldier’s face. They gasp, clawing at the blade, falling sideways off the horse while the rest of the men do their best to keep up with the new arrivals. The warrior’s companion holds his own against the men coming his way, and somehow, unspoken, they all know they’re on the same side, the three of them attacking Boltons men together. 

Although trained from what he can tell, the dogs mostly scatter and run into the forest now that there’s no one to hold them back, one of them attacking Bjorn before it goes, sinking its teeth into his arm. The servant appears from out of nowhere then, stabbing the hound in its side with a newly acquired sword and killing it, helping Bjorn remove his arm from its maw after.

It’s over in a matter of minutes.

Through heaving breaths, he lets his wounded arm hang limply by his side, looking around for her. She’s standing several feet behind them, shaking and wide eyed, looking otherwise unharmed, and he is struck with an overwhelming need to gather her close to him, to hold her as tightly as he can and never let her go again.

Such a thing never happens.

Instead, the warrior kneels before Sansa, swearing fealty to her, offering her service as her knight and protector.

He pushes down on the small, illogical stab of jealousy, focusing instead on collecting wood to start a fire. The companion helps him, introducing himself as Podrick and insisting to take a look at his arm while the servant takes over the wood gathering. The puncture wounds are deep, forming a crescent moon on either side of his forearm, stinging like the Seven Hells when Podrick clumsily tries to clean them and bind them. Still, he’s grateful, and tells his new companion as much, all the while keeping his eye on Sansa.

She’s sitting across the fire from them, watching their interaction curiously, and something warm flares inside him when their eyes meet.

To his surprise, she’s quick to look away, focusing her attention on the warrior beside her, and he briefly wonders why, until it hits him.

Just because he helped save her doesn’t mean she _likes_ him.

The thought does something funny to his chest, even as he watches her be some semblance of comfortable around everyone else, including the people she’s just met. Another small burst of jealously shoots through him, and he wants to rip it out of his chest and stomp on it.

There’s no reason to be upset. They don’t really know each other. 

For all he knows, she could be blaming him for leaving her behind in Winterfell, just as much as he is.

The servant, Theon, declares his departure, and the warrior, Brienne, does her best to convince Sansa that their best chance for survival is heading north towards Castle Black where her brother is. Bjorn, for his part, already knows what needs to be done.

“I will return to Winterfell and gather my father’s warriors.”

“No.”

He watches Sansa stare at him, as though she hadn’t meant for it to slip out. She closes her mouth, then steels herself to speak again.

“Ramsay will kill you.”

He scoffs, “He won’t.”

“He will,” she insists, expression hard, bordering on fearful, and he wants to tear the Bolton bastard limb from limb for ever laying a hand on her. He’s hurt her, he knows. How could he not? 

Monsters always try their hardest at destroying innocent things.

“He won’t,” Bjorn tries to assure her, knowing that whatever she’s experienced has made it harder than ever to believe him. She doesn’t argue, only looks back at him calmly, a small flash of sadness crossing her face before it disappears behind her new mask. He catches Podrick and Brienne sharing a look out of the corner of his eye.

Theon clears his throat awkwardly after a moment, piercing the delicate silence that has settled over them, and they take it as a sign to slowly pack up camp and prepare to go their own ways. Sansa hesitantly wraps her arms around Theon, then clings to him like she’s afraid he’ll disappear into nothingness the moment she lets go. Their eyes meet across Theon’s shoulder, and Bjorn recognises the raw fear in them, sees the little girl from so long ago that ran away when he scared her in the woods.

Brienne, surprisingly, is the one who manages to convince him to join them.

“Jon Snow would want to meet the one responsible for saving his sister,” she says, giving him a pointed look, like she’s scolding him. He chances a brief glance towards Podrick, whose expression says he’s very familiar with that particular tone. Bjorn decides he likes her.

“You are her protector, not me,” he argues, trying not to let definitely-not-jealousy seep through. Something in Brienne’s eyes tells him he doesn’t succeed entirely, and this time her words are a little bit gentler.

“ _You_ were there in time,” she points out, “I wasn’t.”

Knowing he’s lost the battle, he nods, barely, acknowledging her logic, watching Sansa out of the corner of his eye. Her shoulders sag a little with something like relief.

*

The gates of Castle Black are probably not supposed to look inviting, but Bjorn is sleep deprived, technically still wounded, and is asleep within seconds of his back hitting the cot.

When he finally wakes the next day, it’s to Podrick gently nudging him awake, trying to be mindful of his wounded arm. Bjorn makes a noise that could easily be interpreted as a swear, but Podrick doesn’t seem to mind, only huffs a laugh and helps him to his feet. Within minutes, they exit the barracks, Bjorn taking a quick look at his surroundings while they cross the courtyard. The castle is bustling with activity, although most of that comes to a stop at the sight of him. He can only imagine what they think. His mother always told him that the wildling blood in him was strong.

Do they think he’s a prisoner? 

_Is_ he a prisoner?

Brienne greets them at the entrance to the hall, following them inside and shutting the door after her. He’s about to ask why Podrick isn’t joining them, when his eyes meet Sansa’s across the room, as she nervously stands from her seat by the long table. Brienne uses his dumbstruck silence as an opportunity to walk to the corner of the room, placing herself against the back wall and giving him a curt nod.

Probably judging him for standing there silently like an idiot.

“How’s your arm?” 

He blinks, trying to focus his attention to the dull pain in his arm.

“It could be worse.”

Sansa nods carefully, sitting back down again, and he shoots a questioning look at Brienne, getting her approval before crossing the room and sitting down adjacent from her. 

He’s thought of this moment countless times since they were children, wondering what he would say to her if their paths would ever cross again. 

Would he apologise and gain her forgiveness, or would she shun him and throw him to the wolves, literally or figuratively? Would she even remember what happened back then? Would she care?

Does she know?

“There’s still some stew left,” he hears her say, as if from far away, pushing a bowl towards him. It probably won’t help with the bitter taste in his mouth, and she must think the same, adding almost as an afterthought, “It isn’t much, but it’s hot.”

Silently, he accepts the bowl with both hands, fingers warming slowly under the curved wood, wondering how to tell her. How to explain everything that has been gnawing at his mind since the moment he awoke. How the dull feeling in his arm is nothing compared to the hand twisting his insides at the thought of leaving her again.

He doesn’t imagine the way she tenses in the quiet: it’s there in the way she straightens her back almost imperceptibly, gaze falling to the table, as if she’d rather not look at him.

“Please,” is all she says.

He wonders if the stab in his chest is his heart breaking.

“I can’t leave my people to die. My _father_.”

At that, she looks up, her expression not unlike the one he saw when her hair was dark as night. The same level of indifference to hide the pain.

“Ramsay would have you killed before you’d left the Kingsroad.”

He thinks of the wild warrior in the woods, the fight, the broken axe, and _her_ , feeling anger flare in him, hot and fast.

“He would try.”

“He would succeed,” Sansa counters, eyes boring into his. “It would only be a matter of time before you and your men would be strung from the walls or fed to the hounds.”

“I have to-”

“Please,” she begs, reaching out and taking his hands across the table. Her grip is demanding, nails digging into his skin and making him wince, eyes wide as she looks at him imploringly. As much as the thought of her worrying about him fills him with something warm he can’t name, he can’t leave them all behind.

He tries to look as brave as he wants to feel.

“I am not afraid of him.”

Her lips part as if she wants to argue, but she must see something in his face to convince her otherwise, slacking her grip on his hand.

“Not yet,” she says instead, the melancholy in her voice another stab in his heart. He wants to hold her, wants to keep her from harm and kill every man who ever laid a wrongful hand on her. 

Slowly, she stands from her place at the table, reluctantly letting her hand fall away from his. She doesn’t look at him, walking across the room to the door, and he can’t help but feel like this is a test he didn’t pass. 

She makes it to the doorway before turning back to look at him.

Her eyes are the most beautiful colour he’s ever seen.

Giving her what he hopes is an assuring nod, he watches her leave with Brienne in tow, turning his attention to the bowl in his hands, suddenly very determined to eat whatever small amount of stew he can muster. It tastes as he expected, both bitter and sweet, but it’s hot, and to his surprise, most of it goes down easily, warming him up slowly.

Podrick joins him halfway through, a silent companion waiting for him to finish his meal. Or maybe a guard, Bjorn supposes, as they both get to their feet, Podrick guiding him out of the hall and away from the barracks.

“The horses are this way.”

Brienne is waiting for them at the stables, presenting him with the horse he rode during their journey. It’s been fed and cleaned since yesterday, the pitch black mane stark against the worn leathers of the saddle on its back, the midnight coat shining like silk. He places his hand gently on its neck, getting reacquainted with the beautiful animal, while Brienne looks on, somewhat bemused.

“I hope you know what you’re doing,” is all she says when he looks at her questioningly, and he feels the back of his neck warm a little. 

**Does** he know what he’s doing? For all the good it will do him, he might end up captured with the rest of the Skagosi, tortured and bled dry. That is, if they are still alive. 

He doesn’t even know if his father still lives. 

Sansa never mentioned him.

It haunts him for days after he’s left her behind, every nerve in his body screaming at him to turn around and ask her.

iv.

They sneak away in the dead of night, hidden by the darkness surrounding them. 

He waits for his men to crest the nearby hill before telling them to hold, praying to the gods that neither Ramsay nor Snow’s lookouts will catch sight of them all and think it suspicious. Then, taking a deep breath, he stands to his full height and starts walking slowly, carefully towards the Stark camp. 

He makes it a little over halfway before a crossbow bolt lands near his feet.

“Halt.”

He does as told, hands raised in surrender, as the figure walks closer. The boy looks young, dressed in simple soldier garb, eying the intruder carefully.

“I must speak with Jon Snow,” Bjorn says calmly, moving his hand slowly to the dagger at his side, drawing it out and letting it drop to the ground, eyes never leaving the boy, even as they raise their crossbow higher. He draws his sword from behind his back next, the sound making a loud thump against the soft snow covering the ground. The boy, looking a little confused at this point, simply stares from behind his weapon, as Bjorn finally gets the newly acquired axe from his belt, letting that fall to the ground as well.

The boy shifts, studying him for a beat longer, then makes up his mind with a nod. Bjorn walks closer, waiting patiently as the boy rather unskillfully picks up his weapons, somehow managing to hold on to all of them and not shoot himself with his crossbow. He motions for Bjorn to walk ahead of him, and Bjorn complies, putting one foot in front of the other while they slowly make their way through the camp, several men staring him down as they go.

It isn’t hard to guess Snow’s whereabouts in the camp, as the sounds of raised voices start to carry towards them the closer they gets to the cluster of tents in one of the corners. Bjorn recognises Sansa’s frustrated voice, telling her brother that they don’t have enough men or time. It stings, knowing that if things were different, if he had stayed, he might have started out on different sides of the battlefield.

For now, this will have to do, as he waits for the boy to walk inside and interrupt the argument. 

It takes only a moment for the voices to stop.

Taking the hint, he swallows and moves the tent flap aside, stepping inside and pushing down his hood. There’s a sharp intake of breath as Sansa stares at him, like she didn’t believe he’d actually seek them out.

Jon Snow is watching him carefully with arms folded, eyes assessing and distrustful, like he’s just waiting for Bjorn to lunge forward and stab him. 

He honestly wouldn’t put it past the Commander of the Night’s Watch to actually make the first move in order to gain the upper hand. Bjorn’s first impression, or lack thereof, had been horrible to start with, considering their paths never crossed while he was at Castle Black, with the exception of watching the siblings reunite. At best, Snow might have observed him while he was unconscious, passed out from pain and fatigue.

Besides, trying to hold a parley while on a horse next to Ramsay Bolton doesn’t exactly scream ally.

“Why are you here?” Snow asks, tone hard and strangely unreadable. Bjorn wonders fleetingly what he knows of his and Sansa’s history.

“Ramsay has ordered my warriors to attack tonight,” he says, forgoing any pretense of trying to earn trust. They are out of time for such niceties. “He plans to start the battle at sunrise and kill the men that remain.” 

Snow raises an eyebrow.

“And you thought you’d warn me out of the goodness of your heart?”

“How many warriors?”

Bjorn turns his attention to Sansa, who is watching him closely, a fierce determination shining through every feature of her face, a blue fire in her eyes. 

White Walker eyes, a voice inside him supplies.

“How many warriors are left?” she repeats, cutting off her brother’s protest.

“A hundred.” Sansa exhales and looks away from him, and he knows it’s not enough, he knows it will never be enough, but he continues anyway, “It isn’t many, but they are loyal. They can help.”

“Right,” Snow scoffs, shifting the attention to him. “One hundred Skaggs ready to defeat the House they’ve sworn fealty to, in favor of the _other_ House they’ve sworn fealty to, or do I have that wrong?”

“You don’t have much a choice,” Bjorn argues, feeling frustration rise in him. “My men are already here, on Ramsay’s orders, ready to tear through the camp at a moment’s notice if I give them the word.”

“Is that a threat?” Snow snaps incredulously, arms unfolding as he takes a step forward.

“Jon, stop it.”

“He is loyal to the Boltons, just like his father was,” Snow shouts, rounding on her.

“And they killed him for it!”

He’d known for a while, had even seen what little remained of the bones, but the mention of his father’s death still hurts like a blade between his ribs. He hears a gasp, small and surprised, and sees Sansa looking at him with regret in her eyes. He shakes his head.

“I knew,” he assures her, voice steady, although he knows it can’t mask all of the pain. No matter the passing of time, it will still feel fresh, like a wound that will never close. He turns his attention to Snow, watching the dark-haired man regard him carefully, back to calculating. “This is revenge for me, as much as it is for you.”

For a moment, the tent is quiet, with no sounds but the quiet hissing of candles and the howling of wind. Someone laughs from inside another tent. A horse neighs.

“Is Rickon Stark alive?”

It’s a question he expected, but it somehow still takes him by surprise when Snow is the one to ask him. 

He wonders how to answer the question. Wonders how to tell him that he honestly doesn’t know, that in the time between when he last saw the boy and now, a thousand things could have happened. Catching Sansa’s gaze, he sees understanding flashing in her eyes before she casts them down.

“The last time I saw him, he was in chains. Still alive.”

Snow exhales slowly, as if the question was all he needed to make up his mind. 

Seven Hells, maybe it was.

“Battles have been won against greater odds,” he finally says, to which Sansa scoffs, turning away from the both of them. Bjorn knows only a fraction of what she feels towards Ramsay, but he still _knows_ , now that he’s had a taste for himself of just what the Bolton bastard is capable of. There is no telling what could happen to Rickon. There’s no telling what could happen to him and his men if they are caught. 

“If Ramsay wins, I’m not going back there alive.”

A flash of determination crosses her face, as she turns back around and lets her eyes wander from her brother to him, and Bjorn feels the blood in his veins turn to ice as she stares him down.

“Do you understand me?”

Something painful constricts inside his chest at the thought of killing her. He can’t make himself move, rooted to the spot, only half listening as Snow argues against her request.

“I’ll protect you, I promise.”

She doesn’t break eye contact with him.

“No one can protect me,” she says sadly, the words weighing heavily in the air between them. “No one can protect anyone.”

She turns on her heel and walks out of the tent, leaving him and Snow to work out a plan.

v.

The moment the battle is won, Bjorn is taken away.

He should have seen it coming really, all things considered. Snow may have been willing to accept their help against Ramsay, but his father, _his House_ , had still sworn fealty to the enemy, if only for the sake of survival. No sooner has Ramsay been beaten within an inch of his life and dragged away before Stark soldiers are surrounding his remaining warriors from all sides. They’re lead to the dungeons, Bjorn watching as his men reluctantly accept their shackles and chains, taking up space in the cells that smell like piss and rot.

They take him to the broken tower.

It is the opposite of a prison, bare and damaged, but they leave him anyway, hands shackled together but otherwise unhindered. If he put his mind to it, he could no doubt break open the door that’s barely hanging on its hinges, and leave.

He won’t though. 

He spends the first day observing his surroundings. The room probably used to be someone’s bedchamber, but the bed has since been moved, and the hearth has long since died out. The roof is overgrown with dead vines, twisting down through the ceiling, dead fingers that reach out to him in the dark like the White Walkers in his nightmares. 

He wakes the first night to muffled screaming, like someone being tortured. Disoriented, he sits up from his spot on the floor, listening to the sounds of screaming growing slightly louder, along with the howling of hounds. He feels a chill cut through him, not entirely due to the winds pressing through the cracks in the walls. No doubt the Bolton bastard would meet his end tonight.

The next days are uneventful.

He sits quietly in his tower, contemplating everything that has happened in his life until now, from the moment his mother told him of his birth, to the moment Snow had him locked away. He paces to the ruined window and back, remembering the look of Sansa’s eyes on him the moment they met, and how the colour of her eyes seemed to change with each fateful meeting, just like her hair had done. More than once, he hears movement on the other side of the broken door, and wonders if it’s her, come to keep him company in the loneliness.

He wonders what he would have done differently, had he been in charge of the battle, and if Rickon had been alive if he had.

The plan itself had been solid enough: hide in the tree-line and wait for the opportune moment. For a while their attack had worked, pushing back Ramsay’s forces in the confusion, but they had been quickly overpowered once more, forced to cluster together until they were easy to pick off. Had Sansa not done what she did, he would no doubt have been dead by now.

Snow visits him on the sixth day, along with his breakfast. He sets the food near the empty hearth, and Bjorn nods gratefully, before going back to staring out the window. He expects to hear footsteps retreating, until a voice cuts through the silence instead.

“You were right.”

Brow furrowed, Bjorn turns and looks to Snow, standing by the door, looking uncomfortable and out of place, like he’d rather be anywhere else, but still with all his attention on him.

“The Skagosi were a vital part to our success against Ramsay. You have my thanks.”

Bjorn nods again, watching the other man break his gaze and look around the tower, studying it as if for the first time. Something like confusion echoes on his face before disappearing, and Snow looks to him once more.

“You are to take your men and leave Winterfell at once. If you are not gone within a day, you will be arrested and imprisoned for treason against House Stark.”

He can’t bring himself to be too surprised. At best, he’d expected half his men imprisoned and the other drawn and quartered, if not at the very least put on trial for their crimes against the North. That they can all leave without further consequence seems too good to be true. The expression on Snow’s face tells Bjorn that he believes it too, and that the final decision was not his to make.

Bjorn tries not to think of the implication behind that statement.

“Thank you, my Lord,” he says, bowing his head slightly, “My men and I will be gone before nightfall.”

Snow looks hesitant, but nods finally, head bobbing once, twice, before he turns on his heel and leaves the room. A guard enters immediately after, walking up to Bjorn and grabs his shackles, unlocking them deftly before leaving. Bjorn sits by the hearth and eats, thoughts swirling wildly inside his head.

Within the hour, his men are returned to him, looking a little worse for wear, but otherwise unharmed, as they head through the gates and out of Winterfell. They’ve been given a small amount of provisions for the journey, and their weapons once taken have been returned to them. Bjorn looks on as the men walk past him, faces ranging from relief to anger, and fleetingly wonders what would have happened if they had been imprisoned a moment longer.

Skagosi don’t do well in chains.

A man cloaked in black is watching from one of the balconies in the courtyard, overlooking the proceedings, his posture tense and calculating. Bjorn is half wondering if it is to do with the decision to let them leave, when the answer appears in front of him in the shape of Sansa, standing a bit aways from him, cloaked in fur.

She doesn’t move to greet him, but she doesn’t step back when he closes the distance between them either. 

She looks exhausted, the blue in her eyes almost dull and faded compared to the last time he’d seen her, all rage and fire. Her hair is as red as ever, braided over one shoulder, almost disappearing in the wolf fur draped across her shoulders. He wonders if Snow would kill him if he reached out to see if it’s really as soft as it looks.

“Goodbye, Princess.”

She looks up at him, wide eyed and innocent, and he’s helpless and drowning in her ocean one last time.

“Goodbye, Bjorn.”

He’s halfway to Eastwatch when he realises it’s the first time she has ever called him by name.

i.

The North is just as he remembers it: Just as cold as Skagos, but now with the added posibility of losing his fingers to frostbite.

To his surprise, not many of the Skagosi had been against returning to Winterfell, despite the threat of treason hanging over their heads. Most of his kinsmen are willing to grab the chance to redeem themselves in the eyes of the King in the North, if anything to live in a co-existing peace, but a few recognise the real threat is not whomever ends up on the throne, but the White Walkers that bring the Long Night.

It’s a story he remembers vividly from childhood, listening from underneath the furs in his bed, as his mother told of an endless winter that descended upon the world, and the ghosts of men that came with it. Of crops dying and people disappearing, taken from their homes in the dead of night. Of eyes like ice with voices to match, a single touch of their finger enough to turn you into one of them. Gyda had held his hand throughout the story, pretending it hadn’t hurt when he’d squeezed too hard.

A similar squeezing feeling takes hold of the heart in his chest, as he realises he hasn’t thought of his sister in years.

The grip doesn’t let go when he steps foot inside Winterfell’s walls, but it lessens somewhat. There are other things to think about here, like staying alive long enough to prove his worth.

Jon Snow’s letter had been short and to the point, temporarily lifting the banishment over House Lothbrok, so that they could participate in the upcoming war council. Bjorn has no doubt in his bones that Sansa, currently standing on the balcony overlooking the courtyard and observing their arrival, is to thank for this opportunity.

Their eyes lock, and the back of his neck warms slightly when she lifts her hand in a small, uncertain wave.

“Is that her?” Torvi asks from his right, jolting him out of his thoughts. He sends her a look, which she returns unapologetically, a genuine smile on her lips. “She’s beautiful.”

He shrugs, eyes going to his mother sliding off her horse and looking around a little wistfully, like she doesn’t fully recognise her surroundings any more, despite only being here once before. He can’t say he blames her. He was probably eight during their visit, and winter hadn’t come then, everything still bathed in warm colours. Winterfell as it is now looks cold and uninviting, despite its inhabitants.

Snow greets them in the courtyard after a moment, clasping Bjorn’s arm somewhat companion-like, nodding once in recognition, and introductions are made. They are shown to the great hall quickly, in order to start the war council as soon as possible. 

Rather unsurprisingly, it doesn’t go well. 

Dragonglass is precious commodity on Skargos, used in most of their weapons, and will perhaps not be as easily given as Snow would have hoped, yet Lagertha is quick to agree to send word to Queen Aslaug for as much of the material as they can spare. The promise is met with distrustful murmurs throughout the hall, and Bjorn shares a look with Ubbe, his half brother. They both know that Aslaug, while on their side, has always been wary of Westerosi politics in general. Her family and the Starks had feuded several generations ago, and old habits die hard.

The choice to let both men and women fight is not an easy one, and it’s one that’s met with raised voices, which the girl ruler of Bear Island is quick to put an end to (Bjorn immediately likes her on principle). Lagertha sends her a supportive nod, which is gratefully returned, amid more murmurs. Snow’s decision to let the Free Folk take over the Night’s Watch is met with equal resistance, the general noise level in the hall now that of a low hum.

Loyalty is their downfall in the end. 

It’s no surprise that his House, however small, is counted among those who fought under Ramsay’s banner during his terrible reign, whether they wanted to or not. Ragnar’s decision to swear fealty to the Boltons was one made out of necessity, in the hope of a chance to protect the Stark family. The decision to fight for their former House despite their forced oath is a logical one. 

The added sentence of treason is just icing on the cake.

“I’m not going to strip these families of their ancestral homes because of the crimes of a few reckless sons,” Jon says with something like finality, no doubt hoping that his sister, and opposing side, will see reason.

“So there’s no punishment for treason, and no reward for loyalty,” Sansa responds incredulously, as the hall goes eerily silent. Bjorn swallows, knowing what’s coming before Snow’s opened his mouth.

“And where does House Lothbrok fall? Loyalty or treason?”

Sansa freezes, a look of horror gone in a flash.

“That is not the same, and you know it.”

“The punishment for treason is death,” Jon continues pointedly, eyes never leaving hers. “Umber and Kastark died on the field of battle.”

“They died fighting for Ramsay.”

“And Lothbrok died having sworn fealty to the Boltons.”

“Ragnar Lothbrok was tortured to death for his fealty to _me_ ,” Sansa says sharply, eyes flashing, and Bjorn turns his head, watching as his mother stares stoically ahead, chin raised high. 

Her white hair still takes some getting used to. 

It was the first thing he asked her about once he saw her, but she had merely embraced him, holding him close to her heart while he finally broke, shedding long awaited tears for his father. Did his mother know his father had been tortured? Did his pain echo in her bones? Does she dream of him at night still?

He almost misses Snow calling his name.

He rises from his seat in the hall, joining the two others, Karstark and Umber’s children, both looking young, timid, and horribly out of place. Snow gestures them forward, and he takes the lead, walking to the front and standing at the ready, his eyes on the King in the North. Snow nods fractionally.

“I ask you to pledge your loyalty once again to House Stark. To serve as our banner men, and come to our aid whenever called upon.”

Bjorn draws his sword and kneels, the other two following suit. All the air seems to have left the room, as Snow asks them to stand.

“Will you stand beside me, now and always?”

He looks to Sansa, finding her gaze already on him.

“Now and always.”

*

Settling in is difficult.

Despite their pardon, the Skagosi are not easily welcomed inside Winterfell. Bjorn knows they feel just cause for the North to be wary of them, just like the other Houses that stood behind the Bolton’s, but it still stings. Most people treat them with common decency, going so far as to pretend they don’t exist, while he’s caught others staring from across courtyards and halls, looking as though they are plotting his demise.

It doesn’t come close to being as frightening as when Petyr Baelish looks as him.

Littlefinger is a force to be reckoned with, that much he knows from Podrick by now. The man is small in stature but great in power, and he knows it. He is smart, observing every event within the castle with the utmost intensity, as if afraid he’s going to miss out on an important detail that can be used for later. More than once, Bjorn has found two cold eyes already looking at him, making the back of his neck prickle with uncertainty. 

It helps to remember that Brienne apparently hates the man more than he does.

The Godswood is a momentary peace amongst the chaos.

Surprisingly, he finds himself drawn to it whenever he passes it, driven by a need to empty his head of rambling thoughts of impending war and nightmare dead, but has never entered. His mother likes to spend her time in there, he knows. He catches her emerging once, looking lighter, like a weight has been lifted from her shoulders.

Giving in to curiosity on the fourth day, he finds his way to the entrance, only hesitating for a second before letting his feet move him inward. The snow covered ground crunches underneath his feet, as he draws closer to the white tree standing in the center of the small forest, some of its red leaves scattered on the ground like a fairy circle. It’s only when he gets closer that he notices the weeping face carved into the tree, but for some reason it doesn’t look out of place.

Coming to a stop, he looks up into the remaining canopy of red, watching the dim light of the sun shine through the leaves, all at once understanding why people like to spend time in this place.

It feels peaceful.

“Oh.”

He turns, watching as Sansa stops a few feet away from him, looking at him in surprise. In spite of the outcome of the war council, they haven’t had much of a chance to spend time together, their respective duties keeping them apart for most of the day. They’ve caught each other’s gaze sometimes during meals, sharing small smiles like they’re secrets, or a brief greeting while passing each other on their way to other obligations.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to disturb you.”

He laughs, a small huff.

“I don’t pray much anymore, Princess.”

She nods to herself, slowly walking past him towards the tree and sitting down on one of the protruding roots, one corner of her mouth tugging upwards.

“Neither do I.”

He allows himself to hesitate for just a moment before making up his mind and joining her under the tree, sitting down on a boulder situated next to the root. She smiles softly, briefly, before going back to looking out across the snow, past the trees and to somewhere beyond what he can see, appearing lost in thought. 

“Do you remember when we first met?”

He can’t help the scoff that escapes him.

“How could I forget? You stole my arm ring.”

She turns to him, indignant. “I did not!”

“That’s exactly what a thief would say.”

“It’s not my fault you lost it.”

“You remember that?” he asks, surprised, and the look she gives him is the most unimpressed he’s ever seen her.

“You scared me by pretending to be a bear. Assume I’ll always remember it.”

He winces, suddenly remembering all too well how she shrieked and ran away from him while he laughed until his stomach hurt.

“I’m sorry,” he offers feebly, watching as she shakes her head, smiling at him so blindingly that he almost stops breathing for a moment.

“I was nine, I was afraid of everything.”

“I’m still sorry.”

“I suppose I had it coming for being rude,” she chuckles, then, adding as if she can’t help herself, “Your sister was quick to claim it, if it helps.”

He’s quiet for so long that her face falls, understanding etching its way into her features as he looks away. For most of his young life, he’s hated the pity given him when he lost what felt like his other half. He was younger than Gyda by two summers, yet they felt whole together, like two sides of a coin. The pain is dull now, after all these years, but will still remain, just like the loss of his father always will.

“It was a long time ago,” is what he finally says. “A fever took her.”

He feels the way she looks at him, pensively, with something not unlike camaraderie.

“I’m sorry.”

“So am I,” he says, turning to face her once more, watching as pain flashes in her eyes, just for a moment.

They’ve both lost so much. 

“It seems there are worse things than death, Little Bear,” she says then, the name rolling off her tongue a little too easily. He feels a reluctant smile spreading across his face.

“Tell that to the dead.”

She laughs, a quick exhale that sounds more like a sigh, and he watches her look down briefly, as though gathering the courage to speak.

“Who is the woman that came with you?”

It takes him a second to realise that she’s talking about Torvi, and not his mother.

“My brother’s wife. She’s a shieldmaiden like my mother.”

Her face turns to one of confusion.

“You have a brother?”

He wonders how to explain it to her. Wonders how to tell her that her family wasn’t the only one torn apart while she was young, how things changed so drastically after he met her, not just because of Westeros and its chaos.

“A lot has happened since we met.”

She surprises him by turning her attention to him fully, her body shifting towards him, as she leans her head against the tree trunk, a small smile on her face. She’s curious, and it warms him to his toes. She wants to know _him_.

“We have time.”

**Author's Note:**

> incredibly, my inspiration has decided to come back after years of depression and writer's block so... let me know what you think?


End file.
